


An Accident of Circumstance

by manic_intent



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, I don't think there's really any plot in this story tbh, M/M, Secret Santa, Slash, Stalking, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secret Santa, for azryal00, prompts: virginity, stalking or vampire AU. Decided to attempt all, in one fic. As part of a reward for his successes in border skirmishes, Sebastian Shaw allows Erik discretion to create a childe of his own, within reason. Erik rebels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Accident of Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> After writing The Geometry of Chance I decided to swear off writing crazy AUs for the rest of this fandom... and then I got my SS, and... I love writing vampire AUs. -_-; It's a character weakness. So much for the best laid plans. I then spoke to a friend on msn (fassabendover on tumblr): in approximate:
> 
> me: for the secret santa, I got 'virginity', 'stalking' and 'vampire AU'.  
> her: what fandom is this?  
> me: xmfc. I guess I can combine all the prompts into one fic.  
> her: virginity, stalking and vampires? Sounds like twilight.
> 
> And so terrible ficbunnies were born. Therefore in part, this is her fault. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I tried to research the Oxford syllabus for human sciences but I'm afraid I don't understand the course structure on the website (one dissertation after 3 years? Can't be right....), and apparently the institute didn't exist in the 1960s, anyway. I had a lot of help in this regard from @nuclearmission, but I think a lot of the map details are going to be fuzzy.
> 
> Secret Santa  
> For azryal00

Following the _Great Purge_ and the pogroms that followed it, and in the wake of the public and bloody massacre of Clan Argos and their thralls in the seat of their power by the Légion étrangère, in 1760, facing the immediate potential threat of extinction, the Drakuls of the five remaining Clans agreed to a ceasefire. After four months of private negotiations with the Vatican and the human Sovereignties, the Prague Armistice for the Determination of Human-Strigoi Relations was signed in Prague Castle.

Of all of the sixty-eight precepts, the greatest concession that the Drakuls agreed to in the course of their negotiations was a limit to their numbers. Each Clan would only be entitled to number a hundred in total, and any excess strigoi were to be immediately destroyed. The quota has been traded between Clans over the years as the Clans inevitably fell back after the war to their own ancestral skirmishes, but the proportions have now remained stable for nigh over two decades.

-Excerpt from Silver, Alain (1959). _Recent History of the Strigoi_. London: Oxford Press.

I.

"It appears that the Winters will formally cede control of Nevada to us," Sebastian Shaw murmured absently after Erik concluded his report, slouched deep in his overstuffed chair with his pale fingertips steepled together, and Erik allowed himself to relax just a fraction, his eyes fixed as always on the small, blank bronze plaque that sat at a corner of Shaw's desk, and the warped bell behind it, the metal crushed and crumbled. "Very good, Erik."

Behind his back, Erik dug his fingernails briefly into his palms, and sucked in a slow breath. "Would that be all, sir?"

"Not yet," Shaw smiled, thin and cool. "Did you hear about Thomas Penderghast? Dreadful business."

"No sir." Erik admitted, warily, racking his mind briefly. Penderghast. It sounded vaguely familiar.

"No, of course not. They're a minor subsidiary clan of the Winters, in charge of their Canadian operations. Mister Penderghast met with a most unfortunate accident during his vacation in the South China seas. A boiler room explosion, I believe." Shaw's expression was bland as ever. "There were five vampire fatalities."

"Unfortunate." Erik noted vaguely, and then he made a token attempt to show interest when Shaw frowned slightly. "Do you want me to find out who the replacements will be?"

"Ah, as to that," Shaw's thin smile widened a fraction, almost baring slender canines. "Now that the Winters have lost ground, they have, as well, ceded us a slot as part of an agreement to cease hostilities. How would you like to have a _childe_ of your own, Erik?"

Erik blinked, surprised, then hastily schooled his features when Shaw's smile twisted into a smirk, instantly wary. "Many others in the Clan are more senior than I am, sir."

"Oh, we are more modern than that, surely," Shaw gestured dismissively. "And you have proven yourself immensely capable. What better token of my appreciation would there be?"

Erik could privately - if very quietly, given that Emma was quite possibly lurking in the vicinity - think of many, but he said nothing, and as Shaw's smirk faded, Erik muttered, "I don't think that I would-"

"Exactly," Shaw dropped his jovial act, his tone hardening. "You of all of my Clan have shown no interest whatsoever in siring a _childe_. That is why you will be siring one. Understand?"

"No sir," Erik probably looked as blank as he felt, then he grit his teeth as Shaw let out a low, soft growl, in eloquent warning. "I mean, yes, sir."

"Good!" Shaw's scowl disappeared behind his usual, carefully bland expression. "You could use the extra help - the Winters may have ceded control for now but they _will_ not be doing so quietly, and the offer of a slot was most unexpected, even to me. They may be working on a contingency plan, using the offer of settlement to lull us into complacency, perhaps. Still, I will give you a month."

"Very well, sir." Erik inclined his head stiffly, unsettled.

"Azazel will have a list of suggestions," Shaw continued, "But I will leave matters up to your discretion. I trust that you will ensure that whoever you turn will at the least have a suitably useful ability when he or she reawakens."

Erik remembered the greenhouse, with its anchored chains, the screams of the shackled new strigoi, as they met the sunrise for the first and last time, watching from behind a tinted window with Shaw's left hand curled on his shoulder and his right hand cupped around the warped bell; Shaw had deemed his elemental ability far more useful than the power to change skin colors, a prehensile tail, x-ray vision and flight, and so the eighth remaining slot in Clan Shaw's designated quota had been filled by the strigoi now known as Erik Lehnsherr-Shaw. He clenched his jaw tightly - for a moment, he could still smell ashes.

"I understand, sir."

"Azazel will meet you in the lobby." Shaw observed, with a clear tone of dismissal. "Don't disappoint me, Erik."

Erik was simmering by the time he located Azazel slumped luxuriously on a divan in the extensive black-marble-and-gold-plating monstrosity of a lobby. A swarthy, tall Russian man of indeterminable age, background and intemperate wit, Erik grudgingly liked Azazel the most out of all of the rest of the Clan; like the slender rapiers that Azazel was inordinately fond of, strapped in scabbards to his waist, Azazel was direct in his approach to conversation, society and life in general, and was, more importantly, disinterested in Clan politics.

"Ah, the great prodigal son," Azazel drawled, without straightening up, as Erik stalked into view, "Where to?"

"Anywhere," Erik growled, distractedly, still mulling over Shaw's edict, and Azazel snorted, even as he reached over for Erik's wrist.

"Someday I will take you to the bottom of the ocean, _moy drook_ ," Azazel retorted, and Erik shut his eyes as the world smudged away around him.

They reappeared in what looked like a hotel room, impersonally neat and primly furnished, with a view of the night sky over a wide stretch of pale beach, and Azazel was now slouched into an armchair, the heels of his tailor-made, oxblood dress shoes pressed into the plush chocolate carpets. "Here we are. 'Anywhere'."

Erik ignored Azazel's tone of wry mockery. "Shaw said that you have a list for me."

Azazel nodded, reaching into the inner pocket of his ubiquitous black suit and drawing out a folded piece of paper, which he handed over to Erik. "Emma did not say what it was for. Personally, I hope that we are not intending to kill all of those humans. Some of them seem important, and most of them live in the human Sovereignties. The Armistice will be broken, and I do not miss the War."

Erik eyed Azazel thoughtfully, trying to decide whether the older strigoi was being facetious, but Azazel was even harder to read than Shaw; his angular features remained enigmatic. Opening the paper, Erik read through the names with a growing sense of irritation, then he folded it back up and stuffed it into a pocket. "Shaw wants me to turn someone."

"Make a _childe_? Congratulations." Azazel smiled, showing his canines. "Emma will be quite jealous."

Erik rolled his eyes. "I don't give a fuck about Emma and I didn't ask for this. Why would Shaw give such a 'privilege' to me? It has to mean something."

"My suspicious little friend," Azazel crossed his legs, looking bored, "It is just a token of favor and you have done exceedingly well with the Nevada issue, have you not? Clan Shaw is a 'modern' Clan, a meritocracy. Shaw likes people who can get results. You have proven that you can get results. Ergo, Shaw has rewarded you. Basic logic. Just find some tolerable human, talk to them, turn one of them if there is consent, and then we'll go home. Mission accomplished."

"No, no," Erik began to pace, hands folded behind his back. "It must mean something. Shaw does nothing without a reason and he does not give 'tokens of favor'. Why didn't he give it to you or Emma? Both of you are just as capable. He said that it was because I have no interest in siring _childer_. Neither do you."

"Ah, well," Azazel coughed discreetly, "On that I must disagree." As Erik arched an eyebrow at Azazel, startled, the other strigoi grinned at him again, toothily. "Any sane strigoi desires _childer_ , Erik. It is instinct. Status."

" _Childer_ aren't necessarily loyal to their sires," Erik pointed out, deciding to ignore the veiled jibe about his state of mind. "All those stories about blood bonds are myths." Thankfully. Erik wasn't sure what he would have done if he was spiritually or mentally bound to Shaw. Killed himself by now, perhaps.

"You and I know that very well," Azazel agreed easily enough, "But you and I also know that usually, _childer_ created by persuasion and not under duress are instinctively predisposed towards loyalty to their sires. So you will get a companion that you can probably trust. With any luck, he or she might even be tolerable company as the centuries wear by."

"Fine," Erik sighed. "But I refuse to waste time on this. We'll just pick someone off the street. This can't be difficult." Clan Shaw was wealthy, and as of today now held the largest land holdings of all of the Clans, and many humans would jump at the chance of eternal life. As to whether the human would be a tolerable companion - Erik had lived for slightly over two centuries, and to date had only found a handful of people tolerable; were he to try and find a human who met this standard he would need far more than a month. "Let's go."

"To 'anywhere' again?" Azazel asked, dryly.

"Maybe a University, an English or a German one, in one of the Sovereignties," Erik retorted irritably. "I'll just pick someone young and passably intelligent. That way he or she won't be entirely unbearable over the years and might even prove useful."

"You do know that Shaw expects you to at least 'try' his suggestions."

"He told me that I have discretion. I am using my discretion," Erik replied testily, buoyed by uncertainty and an unexpected impulse of defiance. "Besides, that is well within strigoi law. The potential sire chooses. The sire's sire has no say in the matter."

Shaw now had Nevada, and besides, Erik had not had a single moment of selfishness in all of two centuries since he had been more or less forcibly inducted into the Clan, his humanity and family stripped away. Gritting his teeth, Erik folded his arms, his uncertainty and reservations with the situation slipping away. Shaw wanted Erik to make a _childe_? Then Erik would make one - by his own terms, and he'd be damned if he consciously set forth to forge yet another cog in Clan Shaw's powerbroking machine. If the _childe_ awoke with merely the ability to change the colors of his or her fingernails, so much the better. Under strigoi law, Shaw would have to be content with that.

"This is not going to end well," Azazel predicted mournfully, though he reached for Erik's wrist.

1.0.

The Radcliffe Science Library in the University of Oxford tended to grow emptier past nine in the evening on a Tuesday, and Charles was relieved that he had begged off the impromptu pub crawl that his friends had suggested to try and get some serious studying done. Lectures would soon be concluded for the semester, and the semester examinations were approaching in an inexorable march over the horizon.

Faced with his carefully prepared lecture notes, his continuous and assiduous study over the last few months, and the amount of extra reading that he was currently undertaking for further reference, Charles supposed that in _theory_ , he shouldn't be feeling stressed at all. He was more than prepared for the examinations and-

"That one," someone said crisply, by the shelves, causing Charles to flinch as the careful silence in the library was so unceremoniously shattered.

Cautiously, he peered up from behind the thick shield of his genetics textbook, only to realize with mild astonishment that two men were staring right at him from the bookcases, and seemed utterly unruffled that they had been caught out. Neither looked like students; none were burdened with books or notepads - one looked Russian, or at least Eastern European, with ruddy, ascetically angular features and tufts of black hair that wreathed a sharp jaw and a high forehead, dressed in a sharply cut maroon shirt, and a black suit.

The other man was strikingly handsome, likely of Germanic descent, tall and broad-shouldered, rich brown hair combed neatly back, the lovely sleek lines of his body folded in a black turtleneck and gray dress pants. His gaze was unashamedly intense, and his mouth sensuous, if thinned at present into an uncompromising line. Charles looked around hurriedly. They were probably alone on the floor - the hour was late.

"You're not serious," the probable-Russian groaned. "No, you are, aren't you? _B'lyad_. Shaw will not be pleased."

"Fuck Shaw," the German muttered, with a bitter twist to his mouth, and rather to Charles' continued amazement, he marched over and sat down at Charles' table, arms folded neatly before him. This close, his eyes were, Charles noted faintly, an arresting shade of ice blue. "Would you like to live forever, boy?"

Charles stared at him for a long, astonished moment, then he couldn't help it, he grinned. "I'm... I'm sorry. I think you have mistaken me for someone else. This is all very Ian Fleming, isn't it? Was that a pass phrase?"

The German stared at him, rather taken aback, then he frowned when the Russian smirked, sauntering over to lean a palm over the back of the German's chair. "And of course the first person you pick is crazy."

Irritation settled in as a pinched blanket over the German's expression. "My name is Erik Lehnsherr-Shaw. I am one of the strigoi, of Clan Shaw. We have an opening in our Clan for a _childe_. Come with me."

Charles stared at Erik, then at the Russian, then he leaned back in the chair, wary. "I'm sorry, did Raven put you up to this? Because I really do have to study."

"There, he does not believe you," the Russian told Erik smugly. "Let us go find someone more suitable and less crazy, _da_?"

"Shut up, Azazel." Erik crooked his finger at Charles' left hand, and to Charles' shock, his wrist was tugged up into the air, by an unseen force. He waved his palm over his suspended wrist, over the watch that he wore, then below it, fascinated.

"Telekinesis?"

"Metallurgy, elemental-class," Erik corrected impatiently, and released Charles after lowering his wrist gently back onto the reading desk. "Do you believe now that this is not a prank?"

"Well," Charles tried to think quickly, "Good gracious, I've never met one of the strigoi before, and, um... I'm sorry, I'm not sure how you found me, but I've long been disinherited from my family estates. I'm afraid that I'm rather unsuitable for whatever you wanted of me, and er, I thank you for your, ah, interest?"

"I don't care who or what you are-"

" _Also_ ," Charles interjected quickly, if with an apologetic smile, "I'm not interested in eternal life, I have a sufficiency of problems with mortal life as it is, I don't know you, sir, or your friend, and I have an exam approaching within a month or so, and I would quite appreciate being left alone. Thank you. Er. For your time."

Erik and Azazel stared at him with near identical expressions of astonishment, and then Azazel began to chuckle. "Well then, he is not interested."

Erik ignored him. "Boy, what is your name?"

"Charles." Charles offered. "I'm really rather sorry, but like I said, I'm quite busy right now, and-"

"And you are studying..." Erik glanced at the titles to his books, "Genetics."

"A genetics degree. I'm still a first year student." Charles admitted, before regretting it. Raven had always warned him about being far too friendly with suspicious strangers. Erik, however, was very, distractingly, good-looking. _Damn it all_. If this turned out to be some sort of prank after all, Raven had surpassed herself.

"Where are we again?" Erik asked Azazel, with a backward glance.

"Oxford University. United Kingdom Sovereignty," Azazel supplied smugly. "You said you wanted an English University, so I brought you to my favorite. The architecture, it makes me nostalgic. Are we finished?"

Erik ignored his companion again. "And what do you want to do in the future, Charles?"

"I really don't see why..." Charles' tone trailed off as Erik leaned forward, focusing the entirety of his attention on Charles, and his determination to preserve his personal privacy faltered. "Uh. To get a PhD, maybe, if I manage a scholarship, and then to lecture. Maybe a professorship. I'll like to write a few books."

"An enviable aspiration," Erik noted carefully, even as Azazel rolled his eyes. "And you do not think that eternal life would be of any interest whatsoever?"

"Considering that most of my lectures take place in the daytime, I'm not so sure that the ability to inadvertently catch fire should I venture out in the sun would be of any assistance to my studies, sir," Charles pointed out wryly, and Erik actually chuckled, the edges of his eyes crinkling into laugh lines that softened the severity of his usual expression and made him _stunning_. Charles straightened carefully, tilting his textbook up to hide the flush that he could feel creeping up from his collar.

"So you truly have no intention at all of becoming one of the strigoi," Erik repeated, as though in disbelief.

"Look," Charles sighed, as his patience began to fray, "If you'll prefer, I'll give you something in writing. Along the lines of 'I, Charles Francis Xavier, have no interest whatsoever in becoming one of the undead', and I will sign it and date it and you can frame it up in your coffin."

"I like him," Erik told Azazel, after a short, awkward pause.

The Russian rolled his eyes again. "You have one month before the Drakul remembers that he has better things for you to do, _moy drook_. Also, we are currently trespassing in one of the Sovereignties without official sanction, and I should like to return home before there is an international incident."

Erik scowled. "Go home if you wish. This is _my_ prerogative."

"Well," Azazel drawled, "There you see my problem, friend Erik, for despite all apparent logic and circumstance I am rather fond of you and would be saddened if you had to be staked for breaching the Armistice-"

Charles quietly packed his bags as the two strigoi started to bicker, though they stopped when he rose from the table, books scooped into his arms. "Good night," he told Erik firmly, then, in case the strigoi didn't understand his sentiment, he added, "Don't contact me again, please," and hurried off even as Erik started to open his mouth. He stacked the books conscientiously on the first sorting trolley that he passed, then quickly fled the building, looking back over his shoulder now and then to check if he was being followed.

He relaxed only once he had left the University grounds, walking briskly towards the small lodgings that he shared with his sister a few blocks away, thrumming with nervous adrenaline, exhaling only when he had let himself into the lodging house, padding up the narrow stairway to their top floor flat. Charles was chuckling to himself as he opened the door, already partially convinced that the entire experience was a late night prank, or some sort of stress-induced hallucination.

Elemental-class strigoi from one of the five Clans, randomly selecting a _childe_ in the middle of the Radcliffe, of all places, and _Charles_ , of all people? Come to think of it, it was definitely another one of Raven's elaborate pranks. Charles wouldn't give her the satisfaction of asking her about it; she'll never let him forget it if he even seemed as though he was buying into the prank.

'Erik' _was_ gorgeous, though, probably some minor struggling actor who needed the money, or perhaps one of Raven's oddball friends, Charles felt, as he dropped his messenger bag on the couch and absently started picking up the cups and bowls that his sister had left on the coffee table. Rather regretting the abrupt way he had left for a brief moment, Charles shook himself and rubbed his eyes. No. He couldn't afford distractions.

II.

Despite Azazel's grumbling and dire predictions of doom, Erik spent an instructive hour breaking into the University's administrative offices and looking up the University records of one Charles Francis Xavier, first year genetics/sciences student, and, more importantly, learning about his probable lecture schedule.

"First Year Principles of Evolution at nine in the morning," Erik frowned at the abbreviated terms on Charles' rather terse student record and slotted it back into the filing cabinet after carefully memorizing it. "He'll probably be attending that. Oxford University Museum."

"Yes, nine in the morning," Azazel repeated dryly. "How nice. Perhaps afterwards you should stroll down along the Thames, eh? Soak in the late morning sunshine?"

"We can check this lecture theatre now," Erik retorted, "If it is fully enclosed, it will be safe."

"Oh, I can well imagine," Azazel shot back sarcastically, gesturing at the shuttered windows of the records office. "We spend the morning enduring some human chatter about topics that we have no interest in. After class, you follow this human you have your eye on out of the theatre, into a corridor. He turns, he catches your gaze, he pauses..." Azazel sighs dramatically, "And then someone pulls up a set of blinds, or opens a skylight. _Fssh._ "

"Just take me to the damned theatre," Erik instructed.

The lecture theatre was large and silent, filled with tier upon tier of benches and tables, and Azazel hauled himself up onto the table at the front row, crossing his legs as Erik inspected the chamber critically. A large blackboard occupied the wall behind him, at the lecture podium, and judging from how rusted and old the shutters were high above them at the far wall, the lecture theatre was usually fully enclosed. No sunlight, then.

"There. It will be safe."

"Oh yes, and you will blend in very well, like peas in a pod, with all these charming little humans. And if they take attendance? Or ask you questions? What then?"

"You worry too much," Erik told him. "And you have other clothes."

"I? Why am _I_ involved? You should get _Emma_ involved, if you are truly bent on this insanity," Azazel groused. "She may be a bitch, but her telepathy will be very useful."

"She also reports fully to Shaw."

"Shaw will find out about this sooner or later, Erik."

"I know," Erik retorted testily, "That is the point. I want him to find out. After it is too late."

Azazel shook his head slowly. "Why pull the tiger's tail before you are ready, _moy drook_? He is stronger than you are. Maybe someday you will be strong enough to challenge him for the position of Drakul. But that day has not yet come. And if you take stupid risks and get yourself killed, well then, that day will never come."

"Fine," Erik folded his arms, scowling. "Then what do you _suggest_?"

"If you are hell bent on the boy, fine. You have a month to work this unexpected streak of stupidity out of your system, anyway. But if you want to stalk him, do it after sunset. _Da_? In the meantime, I will take us home. We can come back tomorrow. We know where he lives and where he likes to study. It should not be hard."

"All right," Erik decided, after a moment's thought. "We'll do it your way."

"If we did it my way you would find someone more suitable," Azazel grumbled, though he reached out for Erik's wrist. "Not some random child from one of the Sovereignties, with no money or status. What do you even see in the boy?"

"Call it curiosity," Erik decided, as they reappeared in Erik's preferred base of operations, an underground warren of tunnels and chambers beneath San Francisco.

Charles Xavier was pretty enough, if not conventionally handsome, all boyish, soft features and large, brilliant blue eyes, lips so sinfully red that they seemed to belong to a woman. That, along with his clear and utter disinterest in the strigoi and Erik's offer, was intriguing, and Erik had not been intrigued by a human for longer than he could remember.

"Perhaps this is why you are so successful in the clan campaigns," Azazel grumbled. "You are stubborn to the point of obsession and you are allergic to doing things the easy way."

2.0.

After a good night's sleep and a cup of coffee, Charles supposed that logically, everything about last night's encounter could be explained as a prank, if he disregarded the incident with his watch. Once everything logical was eliminated, whatever remained, no matter how impossible, had to be true, and as such, Charles was left with the disconcerting impression that he had just been rather rude to at least one, if not two, members of what had once been the world's 'master-race', before the human race had risen up and rebelled.

Still, as much as eternal life might have its logical benefits to an academic, the side-effects of being one of the strigoi would cause undue disruption to the entirety of his _current_ life as a student, and besides, he rather doubted that he would be left alone to study. If anything, the peace that had been brokered between the Clans and the Sovereignties was a tense, fragile creature, and Charles would probably have been expelled from Oxford, post-haste, and then who would take care of Raven?

And so, having spent the entire day's lectures obsessing quietly over the not-prank, Charles was congratulating himself on a good life decision as he ambled out of the Oxford Museum into the setting autumn sun, and stopped dead as he spotted, across the lawn and in the cafe beyond it, a rather familiar figure in a gray turtleneck, reading a paper. Erik nodded companionably at him, but didn't move, and had turned his eyes back down to his paper by the time Charles scrubbed at his eyes with his hands.

"Charles?" Raven asked, looking around them both, puzzled. "What's wrong?"

Raven had stolen into the lecture with him today despite being obviously too young for enrolment, ostensibly to 'see what he was doing' but more likely because she was hiding from some form of trouble or other.

"Raven, could you head home by yourself? I'm sorry, I just remembered that I have something urgent to attend to." Charles said quickly, and his sister narrowed his eyes, ever ready with her instinct for problems.

"What happened now, Charles?"

"Nothing, really," Charles hedged, avoiding her eyes. "I just need to fetch something from the library. Bye."

"Charles!" Raven protested, as Charles hurried away. He'd take the circuitous route back to the apartment and make sure that he wasn't followed.

Once he was out of the throng of students and heading briskly towards the University Parks grounds, Charles began to relax. Strolling down the South Walk, along the flowering hybrid Mahonias in their brilliant yellow hues, he began to chuckle to himself, slightly embarrassed by his paranoia. Presumably, Erik was in Oxford to look for an educated man to turn, after all - that made logical sense, to want an articulate companion in the face of eternity. Possibly, if he was in Erik's shoes he would have done the same and-

-and that was definitely Erik, in the distance, leaning under a cypress tree, the paper folded under one arm, watching him with an unreadable expression. Charles froze up, considered fleeing, and then sighed, squaring his shoulders. He liked to think that he didn't lack courage, and perhaps there was a thorough misunderstanding, somewhere.

Erik eyed him as he stopped at respectable distance, and smiled, fangs distending his sensuous mouth for a brief moment. "Good evening, Charles."

"Hello, Mister Lehnsherr-Shaw. Where's your friend?" Charles asked, glancing around.

"Call me Erik, please. As to Azazel, he is lurking in the shrubbery, perhaps." Erik shrugged, clearly disinterested in the Russian's immediate whereabouts. "Have you reconsidered my offer?"

"I haven't thought of it in the least, really," Charles lied, if poorly, and Erik arched an eyebrow with just a hint of elegant condescension. Frowning, Charles added, "Look, I'm not interested. And you could get into trouble, loitering in one of the Sovereignties."

"I won't tell if you won't," Erik noted playfully - strigoi could be _playful_ \- and Charles stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat, glad that he had turned up the collar against the wind, his cheeks were going to be bright red soon if Erik kept looking him up and down like that, slow and considering.

"Someone could guess," Charles pointed out, if feebly; Erik and Azazel looked human, provided that they weren't standing in direct sunlight or using their strigoi-awakened powers, after all.

"I'm glad that you're concerned," Erik replied, with a warm smile, cranking up the charm, and to his mortification, Charles blushed.

"Well, you've done me no harm and I don't think that you mean any," Charles decided, "You're just being rather annoyingly difficult."

"Perhaps I was too direct, in the library," Erik suggested apologetically. "I must have frightened you."

"Frightened? Oh no. Startled, yes," Charles admitted, and this seemed to amuse Erik; the laugh lines at the edges of his eyes crinkled up again.

"Well then, allow me to make things up to you with dinner."

"You can eat?" Charles asked, puzzling this over. "I thought that you would, well, ah, well, drink blood. You won't find any restaurants with that on the menu around here, I'm afraid."

"I'm not averse to a good steak." Erik was definitely amused now. "Shall we?"

Charles hedged, though he had to admit that he was tempted; he was hungry, and Erik seemed pleasant enough, misunderstandings aside. "My sister will get worried, I really have a lot of studying to do, and, um, all right then," he caved, as Erik padded over to his side and smiled at him again, in close range. "One dinner, and then, you really are wasting your time, you know."

"Let me worry about that." Erik pressed his fingers lightly on the underside of Charles' arm, with an intimate, gentle pressure.

III.

After two and a half weeks of following Charles around after the sun had set, crashing the occasional (fully enclosed) lecture and taking Charles out to dinner and/or supper, Erik had to personally admit that his current obsession was, quite possibly, getting a little out of hand.

Azazel was growing bored with the entire endeavor and Emma had said something snide if forgettable during their last accidental encounter in the Clan Shaw complex. Logically, as intelligent and engaging a companion as Charles had turned out to be, as adorable as the boy was when he blushed and stuttered, he was firmly disinterested in what Erik was offering. Erik knew that to be safe, he really should be setting up back up plans in order to meet Shaw's deadline, but Charles was utterly distracting.

Still, Erik was old enough to know how the wind was blowing, and one night, seated opposite Charles in quaint and discreet little pub, nursing a rather acceptable pint of beer, Erik was just about to bid Charles a regretful and final farewell when, in a laughing response to something that Erik said, Charles confessed, "Well, I've never 'tumbled' someone before."

Erik took a long moment to remember context, despite a strigoi's technical inability to get drunk, and then choked on his beer, and Charles, bloody Charles, merely laughed harder, delightfully past tipsy and flushed. "Oh look, I've surprised a million-year-old vampire!"

"You're a _virgin_?" Erik hissed, looking around sharply in case anyone was listening to them, but the pub was winding down into the early hours of the morning, and nobody was paying heed to the giggling student in the corner with his companion.

"Go on, say it louder, tell the whole world," Charles pouted at him, his plush red lips slick from beer and his big blue eyes unfocused, and Erik - Erik had lost his claim on any measure of humanity a very, very long time ago. He swallowed hard and tried to think of the requisition statements that he had just read the other day, eyes squeezed shut, but his mind was drowned out in revelation and Erik was aware, all of a sudden, that he was very, very aroused. Fuck.

"I'm surprised," Erik conceded finally, glad that his voice was steady. "Someone as lovely as you are should have a long string of girlfriends."

"There have been girls," Charles, thankfully, was not drunk enough to forget to lower his voice, "And boys. But the apartment's really small, and my sister is a little possessive, and, um, I usually don't have the time. She thinks I'm being stalked, by the way. She's noticed you."

"And what did you tell her?" Erik was all too aware that his mouth was beginning to work on automatic, his mind still blindsided by the raw fact that Charles, pretty, sweet-natured, intelligent Charles, had never known what sex could be like. The things that Erik could do to him, to ruin him for others-

"Oh, well," Charles grinned, lopsided, clearly unaware of Erik's current unprintable state of mind, "I told her that she was being silly. And then when she insisted, I said that you were a friend whom I met while studying in the library. And _then_ she said, that's rubbish," Charles recalled wryly, "None of my friends follow me around and she said she'd call the police and I told her she was overreacting and that anyway, you're quite possibly the most gorgeous person that I've ever met."

Charles drained his beer, then stared a little sadly at the empty glass, even as Erik's brain tried manfully to keep up with the continuous barrage of confessions while willing his body under control. "You told her that I was what?"

"Well, you are," Charles told him defiantly, staring at him with wide eyes under the flopping fringe of his hair, and then he hiccupped. "Oh dear. I'm going to regret all this in the morning, aren't I?"

"Probably," Erik agreed, unable to help a grin of his own. "I think you've had quite enough. Drink some water, Charles."

"Nonsense, I can usually drink anyone under the table," Charles declared, and hiccupped again, then he flailed indignantly at Erik as Erik slipped off his chair and tried to pull Charles to his feet. "Oh, _stop_ that. Let's have another round."

"Let's not," Erik gently but firmly dragged Charles up against him, and walked them both out of the club, with Charles mumbling against his shoulder, deliciously warm, the pale, unmarked column of his neck bared under the collar of his shirt, and Erik had to swallow hard before he managed to walk them both to the curb, attempting to flag a cab.

Thankfully, Azazel popped into existence after Erik had been engaged for over twenty minutes in the futile exercise of finding public transport in a quiet part of town at an ungodly hour in the morning, and smirked at him when Erik exhaled in relief. "Going somewhere?"

"Get us to..." Erik hesitated, not particularly interested in facing Charles' seemingly excitable sister should they take Charles home. At least the night's chill had made him fully presentable to polite society, but he was in little mood to argue with a human. "Get us back to San Francisco."

Azazel raised both of his eyebrows. "We're resorting to making them drunk and then kidnapping them now, are we? How unsubtle."

"We'll take him home after he sleeps things off." Besides, tomorrow was Saturday, Charles wouldn't have classes.

Azazel deposited them in Erik's rooms before vanishing again, and now that they were alone, Erik easily scooped Charles up into his arms and carried him over to the bed, ignoring Charles' mumbling as he pulled off his shoes, and then his jacket, and then dragged the covers over him. Charles tugged at the sheets for a while in an uncoordinated struggle before finally going still, and Erik sighed, rubbing a palm over his face. Hopefully, Charles wouldn't make some sort of scene in the morning.

3.0.

Charles woke up with a mild headache and a bad taste in his mouth, and it took him a moment to realize that he was in a room that he had never seen before. It was a large bedroom, aggressively surgical in color and decoration - white walls, no paintings, steel-framed dresser, wardrobe, side-table, desk and chairs, as was the king-sized bed with is gray quilt that Charles was sitting up in.

Blinking dumbly, Charles noted that he was still dressed in last night's clothes, less his jacket, though his white shirt was now thoroughly crumpled and his jeans felt like they were moulding uncomfortably into his skin. His runners were lined neatly on the cream carpet, at the foot of the bed, and his jacket was hanging from a coat hanger at the door.

Strange.

Then the conversation from the pub caught up with him, in one embarrassing surge, and Charles groaned, propping his elbows on his knees and pushing his face into his palms. He was never going to drink again. Ever.

Erik chose this moment to peek into the room. "Charles, are you all right?"

Charles risked a glance through his fingers. Erik looked sleepy and tousled, as though he had spent the night on a couch, his hair askew and the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone, and... "You have no right to look that good first thing in the morning," Charles blurted out, then he groaned again and squeezed his eyes shut. "Please forget that I said that."

"Very well," Erik drawled, clearly amused. "Can you eat breakfast? Or are you about to be ill?"

"I don't get hangovers, thankfully." It was one thing that Raven was envious of. "Breakfast would be very appreciated after the ground swallows me whole."

"I'll see you outside for breakfast, then," Erik gestured at the other door tucked discreetly in a corner. "Feel free to use the bathroom. There's a spare towel."

"Oh. Um. Okay. Thanks." Charles stuttered, his brain evidently deciding to be very mature about it all, as Erik smiled indulgently at him and closed the door.

It took a few attempts to swim out of the large bed and trundle over to the bathroom, which was, just like the bedroom, outfitted in an excessive degree of surgical chic, with a steel sink and a steel-framed mirror, a toothbrush, an old-fashioned razor and toothpaste arrayed regimentally in a stand beside it. Charles stared at his reflection in the mirror - a pale ghost of a boy, running almost to the verge of going plump, dark study-induced circles under blue eyes that were a little too large for his face, a mouth with a color that was starkly wrong for his skin.

'Lovely'? Perhaps the strigoi had different concepts of beauty once they were turned. His own sleep-tousled hair turned matted and spiky rather than adorably rumpled, like Erik's, and self-consciously, Charles pulled down his collar to check his neck. No bites.

Not that he had been expecting any - Erik was clearly being a gentleman about the entire sorry affair - but Charles had to admit that he was vaguely disappointed. He wasn't quite sure why Erik seemed to be lavishing attention on him: he was a poor undergraduate student with barely a penny to his name, after all, save for a scholarship, and even that wasn't enough to cover living expenses. If not for Raven's salary... _Raven_.

Charles washed up in record time and stumbled out of the bedroom, and nearly collided with Erik, who had somehow managed to tidy up into his usual impeccable self, in a fresh set of clothes, dressed down in a short-sleeved khaki shirt and dark jeans, and had been padding over to the small dining table that was set up before a fireplace. Like the bedroom, there were no windows, and although the floor of this living... space... was wood-panelled, making it look slightly less sterile, most of the furniture was framed or bracketed in stainless steel.

"Have a seat, Charles," Erik held out a chair for him, and nonplussed, Charles sat down. There was a decent breakfast spread, fresh pastries, toast, eggs and bacon, a steaming cup of tea. His stomach rumbled.

"My sister, I need to contact her. Preferably before she calls the police," Charles added, not particularly in jest. It would be just like Raven to overreact, actually, despite being the _younger_ sibling.

"Write a note. I'll get Azazel to deliver it." Erik seemed to have been expecting this - a notepad and an elegant fountain pen were close at hand on an arch of a side table pressed against a wall, with a small white porcelain vase on top of it, Oriental-style. It was utterly incongruous against the rest of the room, and Erik's lips quirked as he noticed Charles staring at it. "A gift from a friend."

"Oh. Of course." Charles scribbled a note, signed it, and handed paper and pen back to Erik, who walked over to the door at the end of the room and handed the items to someone outside before seating himself at the table. Before Erik, there was a dark wine bottle, and an empty glass.

"I hope that this will not prove disconcerting," Erik warned, and poured a viscous red liquid into the glass, and that couldn't be wine, surely, and _oh_.

"No, not at all," Charles lied, dropping his eyes quickly to the food on his plate, though his appetite was fading.

He managed to force down some pastries and the toast before Erik murmured, "Charles, I can eat later, if you prefer."

Charles didn't dare to look up, and he had prepared some sort of pleasantry on the tip of his tongue, so as not to appear ungrateful, but what he actually blurted was, "Is that fresh?"

"Fresh? Yes. I suppose so."

"Human?"

"Human, yes." Erik sighed. "Do you know how the strigoi holdings operate, Charles?"

"Well," Charles hesitated, a little abashed. "I hear that all your humans are farmed. Like cattle."

"Of course, that is what the Sovereignties would teach." Erik's smile bared his sharp canines, for a moment. "And in a sense, it is true. Humans in our holdings live like humans in the Sovereignties, save that the healthy ones of adult age give a little blood - no more than what they can spare - once every three months. In practice, they give less. There are, after all, only a hundred and twelve of us in Clan Shaw, in all of our holdings at any one time. And of course, in exchange, the humans are paid. A good supplement to some of their incomes, I hear."

"Oh." Charles felt a little ashamed of himself for his hasty judgment. "I apologize."

"Do not concern yourself, I was happy to correct the misunderstanding." Erik inclined his head. His mouth was stained red with blood, and it was still highly unsettling to watch. "And not all of the holdings operate this way, I hear. Further, out of necessity, the strigoi are akin to kings in their territories, and we act as such. So there is some truth to what you have learned."

"You're honest," Charles shook his head slowly, aligning knife and fork on his plate and dropping his hands in his lap. "And not making a very good case for your lifestyle, I'm afraid."

Erik watched him carefully, for a long moment, then he observed, "Many of your kind would jump at the chance. To live like a king for life eternal. Every need provided for. To live outside of human rules - strigoi rules are rather more primal and fewer in number. And of course the benefit of the blood-gift itself, the supernatural powers that awaken within you. To become something much more than human."

"Thankfully I've never felt quite persuaded by some of the majority views of 'my kind'," Charles retorted, with a tone of gentle reproach, and Erik arched an eyebrow, his lips curling around the rim of his wine glass.

"Of course. I stand corrected." Erik tipped his glass in his direction.

"What about you, Erik?" Charles asked, on pure impulse. "Do you enjoy being what you are? Immortal?"

Erik seemed startled at the question: his eyes widened a fraction, then he smiled, seemingly amused, though the smile didn't quite touch his eyes. "It has his benefits. I don't become intoxicated, for example. About last night-"

"Oh, God," Charles groaned, mortified all over again. "Please forget everything that I said to you."

"I was going to say," Erik continued, unruffled, "That should your personal... situation... be troubling you I would be very pleased to assist you."

It took Charles a long moment to unravel Erik's statement, and then he stared. "You mean... what do you mean, exactly?"

Erik grinned his toothy grin, clearly no shade of gentleman, on hindsight. "That if your status as a virgin is in any way concerning you-"

"Oh. Oh." Charles was all too aware of the flush crawling up from his collar. "That's, I mean, er, very kind of you, but I said I wasn't interested in becoming, er, one of the undead."

Erik had the grace not to roll his eyes. "The blood gift isn't sexually transmitted, Charles."

Charles dropped his eyes to the ground, but it failed to swallow him. "Yes. Right. Well. I'll, um, consider it." His cheeks and his ears had to be an awful shade of bright red by now.

"Very well." Erik had to be laughing at him, Charles knew, though when he sneaked up a glance he caught only a flash of hunger, writ clear on Erik's handsome features, before it was smoothed away, and he swallowed as he felt his mouth go dry.

"So," Charles said uncomfortably, squirming in his chair. "Where are we, exactly?"

"San Francisco."

" _What_."

IV.

Charles insisted on exploring San Francisco once dawn broke, much to Erik's irritation; although he instructed a complement of human thralls to follow Charles, he spent the rest of the day prowling in the underground complex, restless, tired and frustrated. Charles returned mid-afternoon, blissfully unapologetic and chattering excitedly about his day, up until he had walked right up to the couch in Erik's personal chambers and then curled up upon it, apparently for a nap.

Erik spent the next few hour futilely attempting to concentrate on surveillance reports and photographs of possible incursions into Shaw's brand new Nevada territory, and eventually gave up, returning to his rooms, where Charles was poking around the fruit bowl with an expression of guilty suspicion. When dryly assured that he couldn't contract the blood gift through 'contaminated' food either, Charles blushed, threw an apple at him, missed, apologized (for missing?), and had to be coaxed into going out for dinner, somewhere understated but suitably elegant, dressed in clothes that Erik had instructed some thralls to purchase, pretty in a pale blue Brooks Brothers shirt and silver cufflinks. The night, all in all, was dangerously pleasant.

On the second day, proving that nothing in Erik's life would ever be remotely easy, Erik walked up to the spare room that Charles had been allocated to escort Charles to breakfast, only to find Charles already standing in the corridor, talking earnestly with _Shaw_. Behind Shaw, Azazel looked briefly apologetic, and Emma smiled inscrutably at Erik as he set his teeth and approached them, careful not to touch Charles, folding his hands behind his back.

"Sire."

"Ah, Erik." Shaw smiled at him, full of feigned good humor, though his gaze darted between Erik and Charles. "I was just being introduced to your young... friend."

Erik forced a smile. "Of course."

"Well, we are all entitled to our little amusements," Shaw raised his eyebrows, "And I did give you discretion, and a month. But I'm surprised that you've taken this long for a relatively simple task."

The warning was there, clear in the air without even being spoken, and Erik inclined his head. "Yes, sire. Charles has no interest in being turned. I am still searching."

"So I hear." Shaw clapped Erik on the shoulder and ignored Erik's instinctive flinch. "In that case, you really shouldn't be wasting the young man's time, Erik. Examinations are approaching, aren't they?"

"I'm only here on a short visit," Charles interjected, with a bright smile, either oblivious to the thick tension in the air or worse, disregarding it. "I'm sorry if I've intruded. I've never been to San Francisco before. I grew up in Westchester, but I never went very far. Erik has been most kind to me."

"I'm sure he has." Shaw dropped his hand. "The moment he found out that you were a virgin, I suspect."

Erik blinked, then he glared at Emma, whose lips tipped upwards a fraction, in a perfect shade of malice. Charles seemed to freeze, his eyes going wide for a moment, then he chewed on his lower lip, and Erik burst out, "Charles, I-"

"Don't let us keep you, Mister Xavier. I wish you the very best of luck in your studies." Shaw inclined his head, then he held out his hand to Azazel. "Take us home, Azazel."

Azazel shot Erik another apologetic glance, then he took Shaw's and Emma's hands, and they disappeared in a puff of red smoke and brimstone. Instantly, Erik protested, "Charles, that had nothing to do with... with anything at all."

Charles stared at him, owlishly, then he sighed, and hooked his thumbs into his jeans. "Was that your family? You called that man 'sire'."

"Not my family." Erik grit out, then he glanced around. "Could we...?"

"Ah, of course." Charles allowed Erik to lead him into the spare bedroom and close the door behind them. Quietly, Erik switched off the closed-circuit camera for the spare room with a thought. "So, your, um, creator, then."

"Not just mine. That is Sebastian Shaw. He's the Drakul of the Clan. Its progenitor. He's one of the oldest vampires in the world. The woman - Emma - is one of his First, and his current favorite _childe_. And you've already met Azazel." Erik watched Charles tensely.

"I don't mean any offence," Charles noted wryly, "But they seem rather awful, and I thought that I was used to interacting with awful relatives."

"Charles, about what Shaw said-"

"Oh, that," Charles chuckled, and the sound wasn't strained in the least. "Well, I have heard that some men, ah, like the concept of bedding virgins and-"

"No, no," Erik groaned, rubbing a palm slowly up his face and mentally adding the entire incident to the very long list of wrongs that Erik someday intended to call Shaw to tally for. "I like you, Charles. That's not... usual, for me."

"You mean, liking someone like me? Liking a human?" Charles' face screwed up into a frown.

"Liking anyone at all," Erik grumbled, and Charles laughed out loud this time, startled.

"Surely that can't be true. You've lived for a _million_ years-"

"- _two hundred_ -"

"-and you've never liked anyone?"

"Not since I was turned." Erik amended.

"Not even Azazel? He's your friend, isn't he?"

"He's an associate, and I suppose he's tolerable, but we weren't discussing 'tolerable', were we?" Erik was beginning to feel aware that he was, possibly, just starting to sound pathetic, which he hated, and just as he was considering whether it would be politic to brush off the confession, Charles hugged him tightly and unexpectedly, burying the rest of his laughter in Erik's silk shirt. Erik raised his hands, automatically, to complete the embrace, then settled for resting his palms awkwardly on Charles' hips, instead.

"Just so that we're clear," Charles mumbled into his shirt, his voice still shaking with mirth, "You're not a virgin as well, are you?"

"Of course not," Erik told him, stiffly.

"Well, but... you mean, you did, er, before you got turned? Or after?"

"Both. Liking someone isn't a prerequisite for having sex with them, Charles."

"Oh, my friend," Charles began to laugh again, harder this time, as though _Erik_ was the naive one. Exasperated, yet hopelessly charmed all the same, Erik gently cupped his palms over Charles' reddened cheeks and tilted up his head, their first kiss brushing and soft, deepening only when Charles sobered, with a quickening breath between them, and licked into his mouth.

4.0.

Charles had rather expected to be 'tumbled' posthaste after that first kiss, and had been rather disappointed when Erik had merely proceeded to ask him if he was hungry, and then for all that Erik was perfectly happy to kiss him again whenever Charles showed even the least inclination to want it, he kept his hands to himself.

Charles was then disappointed at himself for being disappointed, at first, when Azazel returned him to Oxford in time for class, and then disappointed at Erik again, after a week, when Erik took him back to San Francisco for the weekend after a most lovely dinner at the Savoy for nothing really at all, though he flirted outrageously through the course of it all.

In the end, because death from mortification was a better death than one from sheer sexual frustration, Charles asked Erik as primly and as earnestly as he could, if he could _please_ trouble Erik to 'relieve' him of his sexual inexperience, and Erik had laughed so hard that Charles had gone to fetch a glass of water and had somehow ended up in Erik's bed instead, kissing each other silly; then Charles discovered inadvertently that the undead could still be ticklish, and matters degenerated quite quickly into childishness.

And then Erik cupped him through his jeans and squeezed lightly and Charles froze instantly, blinking, then he had to quickly tug at Erik's shoulders as Erik tried to sit back. "No, Erik," What did people say during their sexual misadventures, anyway? "Keep going?"

Erik bit down on a laugh. "You don't sound too certain, Charles."

"Well," Charles pretended to huff, "This is all rather new and undignified."

"Sex isn't meant to be dignified," Erik drawled, sliding his hands up under Charles' shirt, all rough, cool palms; it wasn't unpleasant, but Charles squirmed a little until his own body heat warmed up Erik's long fingers, and Erik chose the moment that Charles relaxed to press his mouth to the arch of Charles' ribs and kiss and suck a wet path down to his navel.

When Erik closed his lips over the tip of Charles' leaking arousal, Charles shuddered and bucked with a startled yelp that made Erik chuckle and press his tongue playfully - sinfully - over the swollen arch and then swallow him down, so very deliberate, holding down his hips. Rather to Charles' total embarrassment, he spent himself quickly, bucking desperately against Erik's grasp and tugging at his hair and yowling like a wounded animal.

Boneless and sated, Charles pressed the back of his palm against his mouth as he tried to catch his breath, and looked back as Erik rolled him gently onto his flank, pressing light kisses up his neck before sniffing at him, like some predator, scenting him, then moaning in a low, rumbling sound as he stroked a palm restlessly up and down the sweat-sheened length of Charles' arm.

"Close your thighs together," Erik whispered roughly into his ear, and as he obeyed, Erik growled, "Tighter, sweetheart," and as Charles frowned and pursed his lips he gasped as he felt slick, hard flesh push between his thighs, to press up just behind his balls, then Erik groaned and grabbed at his hips and thrust again, harder, more insistently. Charles groped behind him, twisting his fingers into Erik's hair as Erik bucked, hissing, fingers flexing over his hips, then when Charles tentatively pushed back against him, he growled, long and low, dragging Charles flush against his body as he spilled, cool and sticky between Charles' thighs.

"You're meant to turn someone, within a deadline, aren't you?" Charles asked, when the silence turned comfortably languid, and the arm draped over his waist tightened briefly.

"Where did you hear that?"

"I have a good memory. Azazel said as much to you, when we first met. Shaw mentioned it as well." Charles squeezed the wrist pressed over his belly, tentative. "What happens if you don't?"

"Mister Shaw isn't very forgiving of failure." Erik's tone was flat and empty, an emotion beyond hatred, Charles conjectured, nibbling on his lower lip, past sentiment itself.

"Then why are you wasting your time with me?"

"I wouldn't call it a waste of time. Also, I still have nearly a week left."

"You could turn someone else first," Charles suggested, a little uncertainly.

"I could." Erik agreed, neutrally.

Charles sighed. "Erik, I really wouldn't want you to get into trouble, so, if you are really, set on me-"

"Hush, pet." Erik interrupted. "Don't offer me this out of pity. It's not necessary. At the most, I'll turn one of the thralls."

"Oh." An unfamiliar feeling twisted in his gut, cold and uncertain. "Would I, ah, see you again, after this?"

"I'll try," Erik conceded, after a pause, and when Charles sucked in a breath, he sighed. "Mister Shaw usually keeps me very busy. But I'll try and see you whenever I can."

"All right," Charles could recognise a poor concession when he heard one. "I think you should start tomorrow, anyway. Turning someone else. To be safe."

There was another, longer pause, then Erik said, very stiffly, "Very well."

Charles squeezed apologetically at the long fingers pressed over his flank, then a thought occurred to him, a parting gift, perhaps. "Erik, you like blood, don't you?"

"Do you like food?" Erik shot back curtly, clearly still annoyed at the reminder of deadlines after such a pleasant evening interlude, and Charles exhaled slowly.

"What about my blood?"

"What about it?"

In answer, Charles squirmed up until he was awkwardly straddling Erik, in the dark, and bit down hard on his own lower lip, ignoring Erik's startled yelp of " _Charles, don't-_ " as he leaned down to kiss him. It was rather more sloppy and clumsy than he had originally envisaged, and then Erik _moaned_ and curled his long fingers tightly over Charles' shoulders... before abruptly jerking him away.

"Erik-"

"Charles, do you realize what you've... what you've _done_?"

Charles stared blankly at Erik's outline, in the dimmed light of the room. "Umm. Was there some sort of strigoi etiquette-"

"You damned idiot," Erik growled, "The blood-gift is transmitted through blood, didn't you know that?"

"Well," Charles stammered, rather horrified, "I thought I had to drink _your_ blood."

There was just enough light for Charles to make out Erik, rolling his eyes. "It's a gift from the _human_ , Charles. Why would you drink my blood? I doubt it'd be pleasant by any means."

"I gave you only a little bit of blood!" Charles squeaked, blinking, "I'm going to die?"

"It was only a little but it was a gift, given freely. Therefore, a blood-gift," Erik groaned, "Why do you think we _pay_ humans in our holdings when we could take the blood from them? Why do you think we don't drink from them directly? And no, you're not going to die. You're just going to... to sleep for a while. And then you'll wake up again. Different."

"Oh my," Charles muttered, even as he felt his fingertips start to grow steadily colder, "This is, er, rather unexpected."

"Close your eyes. Just give in," Erik told him, pulling him crushingly close, and Charles could feel Erik's shoulders begin to shake, with some emotion that he couldn't quite make out. "It'll hurt less."

"Don't go. Please." Charles murmured dumbly, fighting back a yawn, as a lassitude crept inexorably over him. "Erik, I'm really... going to sleep. You'll... you'll stay, won't you?" He added, a little anxious. He didn't want to die alone. Not-

"I won't let anyone hurt you. No matter what ability you wake up with." Charles could feel lips brushing over his forehead as he closed his eyes in an inexorable, heavy slide. "Sleep well. I will be here for you."

This, Charles felt, as he drifted off into the dark, was going to be _most_ inconvenient.

V.

The Change usually took a day or two, but Charles slept past even that, still and cold, and if not for the faint flutter of his eyes under his closed eyelids Erik would have thought him truly dead. He had heard that it was possible for a human's body to reject the process, resulting in a coma or worse, but Charles was young and healthy and as such, Erik waited, refusing to leave the room unless it was absolutely necessary. In the meantime, he cleaned Charles up, dressed him in more comfortable clothes and arranged for the sheets to be changed; when he fed, he fed from the side table, keeping Charles' unmoving body in his peripheral vision.

Azazel appeared in the room on the fourth day, and arched an eyebrow when Erik growled at him, seated on the bed beside Charles' still form, teeth bared. "He didn't make it?"

"He's not dead yet." Erik pressed his palm gently over Charles' eyes, waiting until he felt the faint flutter, then he splayed his fingers over the curve of Charles' shoulders.

"How long did yours take?"

"I don't know. Two days, I think. I woke last." Erik recalled, his voice tight. The one unfortunate side-effect of becoming immortal was a photographic memory. He remembered every detail of that day - being dragged before Shaw's desk and told to 'show him a trick', being unable to comprehend what Shaw wanted, frightened and furious. At the end of it all, with his mother dead at his feet, Erik had crushed the bell, along with almost every metal item in the room, and the rest of his 'batch' had burned for it.

"I took a day and a half. Emma told me. She took about the same time."

"So?"

"So," Azazel drawled, his tone heavy with emphasis, "Apparently, according to Shaw, the longer one sleeps in the Change, the more powerful he is when he wakes. The reason why people die from the Change is because they inherit abilities too strong for their mortal shells to contain."

"I've never heard of any explosive deaths," Erik shrugged, though he tried to process this, frowning. "From the Change."

"No. I suppose not. But it's encouraging, isn't it?" Azazel slouched into the chair at the side table. "If he wakes up, you probably won't have to kill him."

"Is that why you're here?" Erik retorted coldly. "To kill him? If he doesn't meet Shaw's standards?"

"I'm here to talk some sense into you, _moy drook_ ," Azazel replied evenly. "If we're wrong, and he wakes up with, hell, the ability to breathe underwater or whatever, I'm fond enough of you to ask you to consider, very carefully, whether you're willing to die for someone you've known for less than a _month_."

"I said that I'll be here for him."

"Don't be melodramatic," Azazel sniffed. "I just want you to think about whether it'd be worth it."

Erik narrowed his eyes, about to bite out a retort, only for fingers to press lightly against the crook of his arm. He looked down quickly, and Charles smiled, wavering and faint, his brilliant blue eyes unfocused.

"You're all," Charles whispered, staring past Erik's ear and up at the ceiling, "Very, very, very loud."

"Enhanced senses," Azazel decided grimly, and snorted when Erik gestured at the steel of the bedframe, drawing two perfect, marble-sized steel spheres in an orbit around his hand in an open threat. "Erik-"

"Erik, don't do that," Charles was frowning to himself, and then he clapped his hands over his ears. "Azazel... Azazel's here on his own accord, he's concerned about you, and he thinks you've been neglecting... the Jupiter project... you've been here too long with me and he doesn't really like me, he thinks I'm a..." Charles's brow furrowed further, "Really? That's awful. Why would I be after Erik's money? Isn't it Shaw's money? Also," he added, a little resentfully, when Erik stared at him, openmouthed, "Your name's not really Erik. It's Max."

"Telepath," Azazel corrected himself, blinking. "Fucking wonderful. Another Emma."

"You shouldn't think those sort of words about a _lady_ ," Charles told him primly, sounding dazed, then he moaned to himself and curled up into a fetal position, trembling. "Make it stop, Erik. Make them all stop! Everyone is _talking all at once_ -"

"Charles," Erik fought to keep his voice calm as he scooped Charles up to cradle his shaking _childe_ against him. "Think of a sphere. Now. Your mind is within it. The sphere is opaque. Within it, you hear nothing." He had heard of Emma describing 'shielding' to him once, if in a decidedly condescending manner, and now was desperately thankful for it. "Can you do that?"

"I... I can't, I don't understand, I..."

"Your mind is in a sphere. The sphere is opaque. Until you choose to shape it, it'll remain that way. Can you do that?"

Erik had to repeat himself, patiently, several times until Charles finally stopped trembling, and then he slowly lowered his hands, blinking slowly. "All right. It's better now." He looked down at his hands, then stole a glance at Azazel, before peering back up at Erik under his boyishly long fringe, his expression apologetic. "I'm sorry. That was awful, wasn't it."

"You did well," Azazel disagreed. "Emma took a week to calm down. But I suppose she had to come up with the concept of shielding all by herself. Clan Shaw didn't have any other telepaths, and our sire isn't really the nurturing sort."

"I still have the makings of a most terrible headache," Charles rubbed at his temples, closing his eyes, then he sighed. "I'm going to be expelled from Oxford, aren't I."

"Why would you care about that?" Azazel asked, apparently even genuinely curious, and even as Charles seemed to deflate further, Erik scowled.

"Shut up, Azazel. Charles, I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you didn't know anything at all about the... process. If you want to finish your studies, I'll find a way to make it happen."

"I suppose he could just attend lectures remotely. By mind reading." Azazel mused, then he smirked when Erik's glare turned venomous. "Just a suggestion," he added, and then he vanished, presumably to report to Shaw. Bastard.

"He's no fonder of Shaw than you are," Charles murmured, self-consciously, then he squeaked when Erik's arms around him tightened reflexively. " _Erik_."

"You're being very calm about this."

"Histrionics tend to be rather undignified, and I really do have a terrible headache," Charles informed him, managing sobriety for all of five seconds before his lips turned up into a tentative smile. "I could hear you, you know. For all of it. I know everything about you. I know that you care for me," Charles continued, seemingly oblivious to how Erik tensed, and tilted his head up to meet his eyes. "I want to help you, I think. If I can."

Erik stared at Charles, for a long, startled moment, then he bowed his head, humbled by the offer of trust, extended so earnestly. "Thank you."

"Well then," Charles pressed a hand lightly over the fingers that Erik had curved over his hip, "Um. I don't have to call you 'sir', or 'master', or 'sire', do I? Because that would be most terribly colonial."

5.0.

Raven had not taken the news well; she had already been distraught when Charles had gone missing for over two days - by the guilty expression that flit briefly over Erik's features, Charles didn't need to peek into Erik's mind to know that he had forgotten about notifying Raven entirely. In the end, he had promised to explain to her further, afterwards, take her to San Francisco, sort out the last strings of his mortal life in London, and then Azazel had whisked them away, this time to the Clan strongholds in Los Angeles. They'd kept Shaw waiting long enough, apparently.

Shaw's mind was rather poorly shielded by the fellow telepath who lounged beside him on a reclining couch in the decadently decorated 'audience' room, more of a large, semi-circular red satin couch on a raised dais before a crescent of a room, the walls behind Shaw a continuous pane of black tinted glass that looked out over the Los Angeles skyline. Emma was lovely in white mink and a skin-tight tube of a dress, unsmiling and still as she stared at him, and Erik bared his teeth at her, his arm curled around Charles' waist, but Charles inclined his head, as politely as he could.

"Mister Shaw. Miss Frost. It's good to see the both of you again."

"So polite. Dear Erik should learn that from you." Shaw smiled at Charles, though there was nothing particularly friendly in the gesture, only open calculation. "I hear that you are a telepath."

"That I am, sir."

"Good. Very good. Telepathy is such a very _useful_ trait." Shaw noted approvingly, like a kennel-master sizing up his hounds. "No doubt you will prove to be valuable, where Erik's operations are concerned. We have to secure our latest acquisitions. There have been a few recent... encroachments."

"I will deal with that." Erik stated quietly, his mind a seething morass of hatred. Charles withdrew his touch from it reflexively, then he surrounded it with a mental image of an opaque sphere, just as he had been practicing. Emma sat up, narrowing her eyes, and Erik glanced between them both, with a silent question.

"Or perhaps you should train with dear Emma here." Shaw mused, flicking his gaze over at Emma. "Learn how to use your abilities."

"He isn't your _childe_ ," Erik growled, and Shaw's stare snapped back to him.

"Be careful of yourself, Erik," Shaw's tone remained light, but tipped with menace. "Charles is your reward for services rendered. I could easily withdraw my favor."

Erik's jaw worked, violence sparking bright in his mind, and hastily, Charles squeezed the wrist that was pressed against his waist, reassuringly. _It isn't time_ , he whispered into Erik's mind, and after a moment longer, Erik relaxed. "Yes. Sir. I apologize."

"And I forgive you," Shaw replied, mockingly paternal. "I do recall what it was like to sire _childer_. One can become rather possessive. That being said, should I feel that a telepath of Charles' evident caliber is being... wasted, shall we say, in your division, I _will_ re-allocate him. Understand?"

"I understand, sire."

"Very good, Erik, very good. Charles, I expect to hear only good reports about you. You may both leave."

Erik bowed, tightly, and stalked out of the audience chamber, almost dragging Charles behind him at his pace, and nodded curtly at Azazel outside. Once they were back in San Francisco, he turned to Charles. "You could block Emma out."

"I think that I did."

"I believe that you're stronger than she is, and that she knows it." Erik determined, ignoring Azazel's arched eyebrow. "That's good for my plans."

Azazel snorted, pulling out a chair and sliding luxuriously into it. "You've been talking sedition for two hundred years, _moy drook_. Shaw is still stronger than you are."

"Why is he strong? Because no one in existence now knows what his ability really is." Erik paused amid his pacing to look right at Charles. "Only some of its effects. But now, we know. Don't we, Charles?"

Charles nodded, with a crooked little grin. "I know what he can do."

Azazel glanced slowly between them both, then he seemed satisfied of what he found, smirking as he leaned back into his chair. "There will be war, Erik. Not all of the Clan will side with you."

"Then, let there be war."

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the photo that was meant to go with the fic:-
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> I'm going to be headed overseas in a few days for the entire period of Christmas, which was why I had to finish this fic so far in advance, so I won't really have access to a computer capable of posting stuff on AO3. If that's the case, I hope everyone has a great Christmas. :) Thanks for reading!


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